


Mine

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingering, Jealousy, PWP, Power Play, Punishment, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne requires correction from her father. Sequel to "A Complete Education," though they work independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LotusEater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusEater/gifts).



Alayne continued to take her lessons in private with Petyr. He taught her a variety of subjects well suited for a lady at court—some less savory than others but all important, all skills necessary to not only survive but to thrive in the pit of vipers known as high society. She was a good student, a quick learner, but her mistakes were many and the correction always swift and necessary. A hard slap across her bare backside, an admonished tone from Petyr—this was the punishment she deserved.

She always tried to hide her smiles in these moments. He liked her little gasps, her false modesty coupled with her drenched sex and wanton movements. She loved watching his control slip as the punishments wore on, loved making him break with a simple parting of her thighs, with an arching of her back. He held the switch, held the power, teased her with his fingers, mocked her with his wicked mouth, came on her bare back when she’d been _very_ good at receiving her punishment. Yet when she said her goodbyes he always seemed spent beyond repair and completely under her sway. She always left him with her head held high as she made her way back to her room, his eyes burning into her back as she departed.

It was all a part of the game. Everything was a game with him, really, and Alayne had found she _enjoyed_ it, despite—or perhaps, on some deep level, _because_ of— the potentially deadly nature of it. Sparing with someone as skilled as him, someone who so completely and nakedly admired her efforts, brought out something buried deep within her.

And she greatly enjoyed pushing him, she had to admit. He left her chastity intact—that was far too important to the greater game—but she enjoyed seeing his limits. Testing that power, teasing him with her moans, with her maiden blushes, with her half-lidded gazes.

She wondered if this could translate outside of their formal lessons. She first has this thought one evening when she’s bent over his desk, his fingers grazing her reddened flesh, his words calling attention to how _wet_ she was, _what a little whore_ , and she nearly laughs as she comes up with the idea.

Oh yes. That would do nicely.

\----

They don’t entertain often in the Vale. With winter approaching resources are limited and travel perilous, so on those rare occasions when they must in order to win allies it’s always a great release. The food is not rich but the wine flows freely, the cellars opened wide to help the guests forget the press of death that hangs around them.

The wine loosens the mood of the many young knights that move in and out of the Vale like birds, never staying too long before they go off to an early grave. It loosens Alayne, who watches Petyr openly from across the room. She sits at the head of the table—a place not usually given to bastards, but she is the Lady of the Vale in everything but title, and her father loves to spoil her—and stares straight at him as the young knight to her side slides a hand up her thigh.

She had been flirting with him all evening. Some whelp of a boy with eager eyes and easy smiles, keen to bed the pretty bastard girl. Alayne can’t deny that his attentions warmed her, though not nearly as much as the hard set of Petyr’s mouth, the positively wicked gleam in his eye whenever she parted her lips just so.

The boy is whispering in her ear plans to meet later while Alayne nods absently, her eyes locked on Petyr’s as he rises from the table and approaches them.

 “Alayne,” Petyr says by way of greeting. His voice is tight, his eyes shifting to the young knight who nearly fell out of his chair in an effort to separate himself from her. Alayne looks up at him, all innocence. “May we have a word?”

She puts on her best contrite expression, casts morose eyes at the boy, and follows Petyr out, her heart pounding in her chest.

Once they enter a deserted corridor he turns on her, his hand reaching out to grasp her wrist. “What exactly was that about Alayne?” He keeps his voice low but his words still spill out of him with force, unrestrained. She casts her eyes down and tries to hide her smile. It was all so easy.

“I’m very sorry.” She pauses, tries to keep the excitement out of her voice. She looks up at him, her gaze wide. “Will I have to be punished?”

He’s still gripping her wrist at these words, his eyes still hard with jealousy, but his mouth lifts in a sly smile at her question. He nods silently and she returns his grin.

\---

This was to be a completely _different_ punishment than the one she had expected. For starters, he leads her to his room. The Lord Protector of the Vale has opulent and welcoming chambers but Alayne still pauses, unsure in the middle of the floor, the boldness born of wine and desire briefly giving way to inexperience.

Petyr locks the door behind them, shutting out any noise from outside. There is a fire burning low in his hearth, giving the room an enveloping warmth, a low light that seems to highlight the blush spreading across her skin.

She turns to meet Petyr’s eyes. He’s standing near the door, hands folded and resting on his stomach, a queer grin in his eyes that goes straight to her core. Alayne, already wet, now fears that she will drench the velvet gown he had gifted her—a dress far too fine for a bastard.

Petyr seems to read her thoughts. “Strip,” he says, his voice just a few octaves above a whisper. He remains standing stock still, a twitch of his mouth the only movement she can perceive.

The silence between them is thick, the cracking of the fire the only sound that breaks through the tension. She had enjoyed testing his limits for so long, enjoyed the game and the dance, enjoyed his touch and his filthy words. But his request—no, his _command_ —indicated another barrier was about to be crossed. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her blood running hot through her veins. She wasn’t frightened, had hoped for a reaction like this when she provoked him before, but now that she was confronted with it her breath caught in her throat.

“ _Alayne_ ,” he continues his mouth caressing the name. His eyes are bright with drink and lust and power. “ _Strip._ You must be punished.”

She can’t find her voice but she nods once, earning herself another smile. Her hands shake as she undoes the laces of her gown—not as practiced or seductive as she would have wished, but she completes the task. Petyr’s eyes all but devour her, and when the gown hits the floor he let out of a low groan. It goes to her head, strangely. She is the one exposing herself for him, doing his bidding, and yet he is completely in her sway. She had not really understood the concept of being drunk with power until they began their private games.

She stands before him in her shift, arms lightly crossed in front of her chest. The garment is thin and even with the fire the room has a chill. The peaks of her nipples are visible through the silk fabric, the exposure making her instinctively wish to cover herself.

“The shift too,” he mutters. He shifts his weight and Alayne can tell he is already hard; it was a strange, heady feeling to be able to do that to a man without touching him. “Everything but your stockings.”

 _Well, this is certainly new._ She had never been completely naked before him, but right now the slickness between her legs was wining over her caution. She slides out of the garment and lets it hit the floor, watching his expression carefully.

Petyr looks her over from head to toe, his eyes lingering on her firm breasts, on her waist, on the juncture between her legs. He wets his lips once and she sees him fist a hand into his doublet. She stands just a bit straighter, letting him look his fill, trying to look ashamed.

After a long moment he shakes his head, as if to gather his thoughts, then speaks again, his voice almost breaking. “On the bed. Place your elbows on the sheets and lean over.”

There must have been some actual worry that crossed her face but Petyr laughs, gently. “I won’t despoil you. Not like that. But Alayne...” he moves toward her now, crossing them room until they are within arms length. ”If you wish to act like a whore, you must be punished like one.” He seems to be gaining courage, taking back some of the power that he had lost to her. The prospect of winning it back excites her greatly.

Petyr reaches out to place a hand on her lower back and guides her gently, until she is bent over his massive bed, her small hands gripping his sheets. She’s dressed only in her white wool stockings and the simple jewelry that she wore. Somehow this only makes her feel more naked, only excites her more. Petyr stands behind her and runs an appraising hand up one leg, his fingers dancing along the top of a stocking before brushing against her dripping wet sex and settling on her bottom. “ _Beautiful,”_ he mutters and Alayne suppresses a groan, only to have it come out in a gasp when he brings his hand down hard.

“Now, now,” he says, his hand resting on the burning flesh. “This is necessary. You know that right?” he brings it down again and she stops her cry, nodding her head in agreement.

“Good girl.” Alayne can hear the smirk in his voice. He follows this up with a particularly hard smack across her cheeks, jolting her body forward. Petyr rests his hand for a moment, his fingers trailing down to tease her entrance, the other hand reaching underneath to cup a bare breast, his hand massaging the sensitive flesh.

“Were you this wet for him?” he asks, fingers running up and down her netherlips.

“No,” she whispers. She was wet then, that was true, but it wasn’t the young boy who did it for her. It was Petyr’s jealousy, her control, the knowledge of what was coming. “It’s all for you.”

He groans out his approval and brings his hand down in three quick, successive slaps. She lowers her head into the mattress to conceal her wanton cries; the last thing she needs is for anyone to discover this particular aspect of their relationship.

“Good,” he mutters. She can hear him unlacing his breeches, freeing himself. “But still, that is a _very_ wicked reaction. What kind of father would I be if I did not correct that?”

Her bottom is on fire but he corrects her again and again, every once and a while returning attention to her breasts. She’s so wet by now she fears soaking the tops of her stockings, her face burning with shame, her core burning with desire. In the morning she will question this again, ask herself why she allows him to do these things to her. But for now it’s a wonderful _release_ and the near-animalistic sounds that he makes, the feeling of his fingers on her sex, make it all worth it.

“Would you let him do this to you?” Petyr asks with a husky voice. He’s rubbing a finger along the side of her clit, tormenting her. When she shakes her head he laughs and inserts two digits into her slowly, bringing his thumb to rest against her bud.

“ _Very good,_ Alayne.” He fucks her slowly with one hand, his other clearly wrapped around his cock, although she can’t see it. “This is _mine_ and don’t you forget.” He leaves her slit to deliver another smack, as if for emphasis.

Alayne doesn’t bother to mention her promised marriage. She knows well enough that even if that was to come to pass she was still his.

Just as he was hers. He might not be willing to admit it, but she has as much control over him as he does over her. The idea makes her smile as he speeds up his hand’s attentions, bringing her close to the edge.

He pulls away at the last second, leaving her wet and empty and frustrated. Alayne rolls onto her back to face him, the feel of the soft silk against her bottom soothing.

Petyr is starting down at her with one hand loosely fisted around his thick member, his eyes mocking. Without thinking she grabs at his clothing, pulls him down against her, catches his mouth in a punishing kiss.

He moans her name—her real name—into her mouth when she wraps her own fingers around his shaft.

He feels good in her hand, almost impossibly warm and wet with pre-come. She works her inexperienced fingers over him lightly and thankfully he does assist her, making small movements with his hips, wrapping a hand around hers to show her how to hold him, how to stroke him. When a rhythm is established he returns his fingers to her slick lower lips, keeping pace with her movements. They are nearly eye-to-eye, their mouths brushing in open kisses now and again with the jolting of their bodies.

“He should see you like this,” Petyr murmurs against her cheek. “Perfect, wet little whore, her fingers around her father’s cock.” His words make him increase his movements, fucking her almost brutally with his fingers. “He should know who she belong to.”

Alayne can only gasp in response, her body open and exposed and brought to a point of ecstasy by his skilled attentions. Her orgasm rips through in waves and as it does Petyr covers her mouth in a deep kiss, quieting her moans, drinking in her pleasure.

When she comes back down, a spoiled mess of a girl on his bed, he again wraps a hand around hers on his cock and helps her bring him off, working over it with a frantic pace until he spills his speed across her skin.

They lay together on his sheets for a long moment, Petyr leaving reverent kisses on any bit of flesh he could claim, Alayne studying the wet patterns smeared against her body. She knows in the morning she will be too sore to sit, but at this moment there was nothing but waves of pleasure coursing through her small frame. She digs the nails of one hand into his shoulder, listens to his answering groan, and can only think one word. _Mine._


End file.
